


Opening

by Hopetohell



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He remembers pain, unbelievable pain, and it’s still stuck inside his head, still rattling around and doubling back on itself because the cause of it never really happened. You’d seen the news reports, everyone did, but this. None of it could compare to the raw, unadulterated misery that seethes in him without an outlet.
Relationships: Mike (Hellraiser)/Reader
Kudos: 3





	Opening

Mike is quiet and thoughtful; his mind is far away. It won’t last, because any minute now he’ll rake a hand through his curls and force a grin; he’ll pull that devil-may-care attitude over himself and reach for you with playful intent. 

But. 

Right now he’s open in a way that only seems to happen when sunlight shines through the clouds in a particular way. It’s a gift, one you’re not sure he knows he’s giving. But it’s a gift all the same. 

It’s a precious thing, the way he lets you undress him and lead him into the shower where he stands with water sheeting down over his face, where his skin turns lobster red except for a person-shaped pale blotch where you press against him. Here the water runs all down his face and stings at his eyes; he blinks it away and rests his chin on top of your wet head.

And here’s the moment when he realizes you’ve seen through him. He crowds you til your back is chilly against the wall and he plants a hand right beside your head, lowering his face til he’s at eye level, water dripping from his curls, his nose, his lashes; and he’s not threatening, no, never, but the next moment could go one of two ways. He could scowl, turn away, afraid of what you’ll say to him; he could leave and disappear into cloudlight and smoky regret. 

Or. 

You could reach for him and fumble the words, the _I’m here_ and _I love_ and _all the time you need._ And like all things that matter most, you seal this promise with a kiss, with a touch, with a _let me let me._

And now it’s him against the wall and he’s shaking just a little; your hands are steadying on his thighs as you sink down and say _please, please I want to,_ as you take him into your mouth soft and warm and delicate, as you work him slow and careful with a squeeze on his thigh to say _I’m here._

And you _are_ here, aren’t you? You won’t leave, even though you must know by now how he failed his friend, how he failed to keep him or anyone safe. 

Water sheets down your face, now, as you look up at him as though through rain; he looks as though he desperately wants to touch, to ground himself, but his hands clench at his sides. And all you can do is reach for his hand to tangle in your hair, to work him in earnest and pull his mind out through his cock, to swallow down his bitterness and pray that when it leaves him hollow, something kinder will flow in to fill the void.

And he doesn’t really know how to ask for what he needs; he sits on the edge of the bed with his towel over his shoulders like a cape, hair still wet and bedraggled, face still looking like someone just ran over his dog. When you ask what you can do, there’s silence for a long time. And then, haltingly, painfully slowly:

_I remember._ He remembers pain, unbelievable pain, and it’s still stuck inside his head, still rattling around and doubling back on itself because the cause of it never really happened. You’d seen the news reports, everyone did, but this. None of it could compare to the raw, unadulterated misery that seethes in him without an outlet. 

You see him start to spiral and automatically reach out, not to hold or to soothe but to pinch the sensitive skin of his inner thigh between finger and thumb, and then _twist._ It raises a bruise almost immediately, along with a gasp and a twitch. 

_There you are._

An idea starts to form, and _go stand in the doorway. Grab the top of the doorframe, yeah, that’s it. I’ll stop if you let go, ok?_ And you open your little pocketknife, the one that’s sharp as anything, and you begin to delicately run it over his skin, looking for... something. A tell, maybe. A clue, something to let you know how you should play this. And there it is, over his sternum, a patch of skin that makes him keen when you press down just to the point of pain. 

_Tell me_

And he does, each syllable wrenched from him at such cost, as you stand with your knife poised there, turning and dragging the blade in delicate patterns, opening him bit by bit. As blood runs down his chest it paints a picture of a hook that wasn’t there, that shouldn’t still wake him late at night with the memory of searing pain. 

And as you work you’d expect his breath to come faster and faster, to have to stop when the hurt becomes too much, when his mind and body coalesce around the knowledge that he’s never done this before. And the tears begin to fall, yes, but his hands grip the doorframe and somehow his breath is slowing, his heart too— everything in him is slowing. Settling. It comes pouring out of him slow and steady, tears and blood running all down him, emptying him out. 

And maybe it’ll prove to be a mistake but you take the knife and press in and in and in until it fetches up against bone, blood now running in a sheet down his chest. He drops with a cry, then, right to his knees, the crack echoing loud in the room. And he still cries silently, still he stares at you as though you have some tremendous secret you’re keeping from him. He looks down, then, at the blood and mess, sees the cuts rising and falling with each breath. Sees, perhaps, the tip of a hook described by blood and salt and pain. He touches the wounds in wonder and you let him, though they need to be cleaned and disinfected, though you still can’t quite fully believe that he would do anything other than run screaming. 

But he kneels there, silent, tearful and yet somehow settled in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. And when you step closer he buries his face in your belly, wraps his arms around your legs and says simply, sincerely, _thank you._ And this is nice, this is lovely, looking down at him like this but you want more contact and so you sink to the ground before him, you wrap yourself around him chest to chest and his blood is smearing all over you, marking you and binding you as well. 

It’s filthy and if you weren’t still naked from the shower it would ruin your clothes. But that’s not so important. You’re naked anyway and besides. Who cares about anything beyond Mike and this soft and bloody embrace? And maybe he still carries the memory of a hook, but you’ll bracket that memory with better ones, with the thought of your hands on him. With the way he blinks, slowly, and leans to nuzzle into your hand.


End file.
